It wasn't what it seemed.
Perhaps, then, that is the fate of all things.
Murder.
The wilful taking of life.
Or just a removal of agonising obstacles?
From the start, Edith could see where she was going.
A misty night, Mary's pale face with the trickle of blood from her deceitful lips.
It was a thing she knew would revolt most people, but then, Mary had warped her into something unlike most people. She knew it was strange. She couldn't help it; why shouldn't she wish for the death of her greatest enemy, her sister?
Mary was dark. Mary was evil. Mary was the obstacle.
And Edith knew the only way was death.
The clock was ticking.
Soon the hour would come.
Sybil drifted to the window.
Cold, dreary London greeted her.
She felt the familiar ache of emptiness in her heart. Looking back at the empty bed in the empty room in the empty house, she raised her hand and swiped the bad dreams away.
This time would be different.
Cora brushed her faded hair out, running the comb through it in an old ritual. She sat limply on the end of her bed, back to the crumpled sheets. Her silk nightdress hung about her thin frame, twisting round her weak limbs.
She patted her hair, lifted herself to the floor with a sigh of effort and sat down at her dressing table.
In front of her, propped up by the mirror, was a black-edged letter.
Her old, tired eyes rested on it as she smoothed her hair back. A frail, trembling hand reached for it, and with a pallor in her cheeks, she opened it.
The middle-aged, red-haired woman stood at the window of her house in Grosvenor Square and looked out. The rain pattered on the glass, and Lady Rosamunde watched the dark, porcelain-skinned young woman in the expensive clothing walk up the steps. Rosamunde's thin lips twisted in a scowl. She wouldn't get away with it.
Not this time.
He ran a hand through his honey-blonde hair. Beside him Lavinia stirred, rolled over, went back to sleep. Matthew shifted out of the bed and looked out at the dreary morning.
Somewhere out there the woman who ruined him was living, loving, laughing. His fists clenched as he remembered the porcelain-skinned, black-haired perfection, the dark-eyed, red-lipped viper who wrecked his life.
But not now.
She would not wreck him now.
Anna ran her hands over the files.
S, T, U, V- there.
The Viper.
She fingered the file, running her scarred hands over the words that filled her with such pain. The photo was old, faded, taken by the maid who had served the deceitful heiress so loyally for so long.
But her loyalty had been thrown in her face.
And now she was back.
Anna was ready.
His smiling assistant gathered her papers and left the room.
Charles pulled his window closed, rain spattering his shirtsleeves.
The picture on the desk was old.
He stared down at it, memories of the porcelain viper who had sent his mind to the brink of insanity filling his brain. The letter lay opened beside it, the words looping inside him.
Such a demoness deserved to die.
Thomas rubbed his weary eyes.
The weak morning light filtered into the cold room. His bed was crumpled, sheets torn in the night by the frenzied dreams. He pushed back his black hair with one pale hand and lit a cigarette, drawing in the soothing smoke.
So, she was back.
The viper in his dreams returns to torture him again.
Not this time.
The letter lay on the floor, read and agreed with.